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The Turtle’s hair has been a bit unmanageable for a while. But I was in denial. The words: “He won’t be my baby without his hair” were uttered. Then we had 6 plane flights in the space of a week. And all irrational attachments to the hair had to be examined closely. There was no denying the fact that my baby’s luscious curls had transformed into dog-bum-hair. Hair that you would be embarrassed over. There was no way out.

A hair cut was the only solution. The Hubby almost danced a jig. A kids’ salon was researched. But the operating hours meant the Hubby would have had to take a day off work to bring us. A random chain was decided upon. The Hubby looked relieved to learn he didn’t have to come with us. We both expected tears and tantrums. But there were none. He sat on my knee, as quiet as a mouse.

Instructions for the stylist? “I don’t care, so long as he no longer looks like a ragamuffin”